I live in a very warped world.
You see, most of my local mom friends (and blog-friends, for that matter) are directly linked to the fact that we all have twins. The percentage of my mom-friends with twins is drastically out of proportion with reality.
Between my own experience of a twin pregnancy and those of my friends, I know entirely too many people whose babies have spent varying durations in one NICU or another. I know so many 28- and 30- and 32-weekers who have spent months in the hospital. Even though my babies were a full 36 weeks, that single, uneventful week in the special-care nursery was enough to dramatically alter my early parenting experience. As kind and skilled as the nurses and doctors were, I hope they will not take offense to the fact that I have zero desire to make their acquaintance again.
Having carried twins to 36 weeks, I suppose it would stand to reason that I should easily be able to make it to 37-39 weeks with a singleton (my repeat c-section will be scheduled for around 39 weeks). But I know better than to think there is any such promise made or implied by my previous pregnancy.
And so, here I am, in what feels like the red zone of “viability.” God, what a word. It seems like it should be positive, optimistic, full of possibility. But the mere fact of having to say it out loud makes it awful. I am nearly 28 weeks pregnant. I have friends with 28-weekers, and while I know their long-term outcomes are often good, especially with the quality of care here in Boston, I also know that every week on the inside past 28 makes exponential differences.
But man, I wish I was blissfully ignorant of this risk. I just want to go to the hospital, have my baby drama-free, and then go home together a few days later. Is that so much to ask?
I’ll be over here on the couch, lying on my left side and drinking lots of water, and trying to be grateful for every week that passes.